Navigating Early

by Clare Vanderpool

  Early studied Fisher’s dog tags, letting them dangle and turn in the firelight. “He doesn’t want me. I tried to tell him to come home. But it was like he didn’t even understand me. Like that part in Pi’s journey where he landed on the island and they were speaking another language.”

  My heart ached for Early. He had come all this way, believed the impossible could be true. And it was true. But he was still going home without his brother.

  I took the dog tags and studied them myself. I couldn’t read numbers in the way that Early could, but those raised letters that spelled out FISHER AUDEN and BETHEL, MAINE told a story that even I could understand.

  “He does want you. He’s just so hurt and sad. Think about it, Early. You’re always comparing his journey to Pi’s. You know how Pi went on his great adventure but then lost his whole family? Well, Fisher’s men at that bridge in France were like family to him. And he lost all of them. And you know how Pi carried his burden into the catacombs? Fisher is carrying his own burden over not being able to save his men. He’s mourning the loss of the people he loved and the life that he knew.” My eyes stung a little bit. Those dog tags might as well have read JACK BAKER—USED TO BE FROM KANSAS. “Fisher has lost his bearings. He doesn’t feel like he belongs anywhere.”

  I ached, feeling my own loss. And Fisher’s. And Early’s. I searched for some way to help Early understand why Fisher wasn’t coming back. “Maybe he just needs more time in the empty space—to think things through. Get his bearings.” I shook my head at my own pathetic tale. “Remind you of anyone?”

  “Your dad.”

  “What?” I said, my head jerking up so fast, I could have gotten whiplash. “No, Fisher is not like my dad.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “No, he isn’t!” I yelled. “Early, you don’t even know my dad.”

  “Yes, I do. You told me about him. Remember when you told me about your soap box car and how it got warped in the rain and it got fixed? When we started building the boat, you didn’t know how to cut an angle or glue a joint. You said it got so late when you were fixing your soap box car that you didn’t remember finishing it. Your dad finished it. He took care of you, just like Fisher took care of me.

  “And when we were looking at the stars with Gunnar? You knew Orion and the Pleiades and Cassiopeia. You learned them when you were a kid. But you said your mom didn’t know those names. Your dad is a navigator. He taught you the names of the stars. And I know your dad is a soldier. He did his job and worked hard and wanted to come home. Just like Fisher. But something happened that made everything different. And he got lost. Just like Fisher.” Early crossed his arms, standing his ground. “He made your bed and sorted your sock drawer. He loves you.”

  I supposed that to Early, sorting a sock drawer would be an expression of love. Maybe my dad looked at it that way too.

  I didn’t answer. Early’s retelling of all that I had told him over the past couple of months hit me like a slap in the face. My face flushed. Was it from shame or anger?

  “But he also took down all of Mom’s stuff in the house,” I said. “He was trying to get rid of anything that reminded him of her. He packed it all up. What about that?”

  Early didn’t say anything. I’d stumped him on that one. Not even he could come up with an explanation.

  He thought, then answered quietly. “Maybe he packed it up and is carrying it. Like it’s his burden.”

  Now I was the one left without a response. I stood and checked the clothes by the fire. Just then there was a clatter and the sound of loud voices outside. We peeked out the window. Up the hill, maybe thirty feet from the shack, were MacScott’s men, Olson and Long John Silver.

  “What are they doing here?” I asked.

  “They’ve probably been at the Bear Knuckle Inn, having some spirits and vittles. That’s what pirates call drinks and food. I like the way that sounds, spirits and vittles. It sounds so much nicer than ale and ham hocks or bourbon and liver. Now, milk and cookies, that sounds okay—”

  “The Bear Knuckle Inn?” I interrupted Early’s wordplay. “You think that’s around here?”

  “Yes. It’s just over that hill. It was right at the bend of the river where the maple and oak trees were in full color. Remember?”

  “No, Early, I don’t remember. But it would have been nice to know before we camped out in this shack. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Maybe we could ask them to give the Maine back. Now that Captain MacScott is ‘no longer with us,’ ” he said, using finger quotation marks. “That means someone’s dead. Or you can also say kicked the bucket or bought the farm or cashed in his chips or gave up the ghost—”

  “Early! I know what it means! But it doesn’t mean they’re going to just hand over the boat. And now that their captain is ‘dead,’ ” I said, using my own finger quotes, “they’ll probably kill us for good measure.” I put on my clothes, which were still a little damp.

  “Where do you think they put it?” asked Early.

  “The Maine?” I pulled on my jacket and peeked out the door of the shack to make sure no one was nearby. “How should I know? They’re pirates. They wouldn’t keep pulling it behind their boat, in case someone was looking for it. They’ve probably stashed it away somewhere near their hideout.”

  “Yeah, somewhere near their pirate lair,” Early whispered.

  We must have thought at the same time that the Bear Knuckle Inn was very much like a pirate lair. And that the very shack we were in would make a good hiding place for any hidden treasure. Early and I both turned away from the door. We took a corner of the tarp we’d been sitting on and gave it a tug.

  The deep blue of the Maine seemed to flood the dingy room with color. We turned the boat over and found the oars tucked underneath.

  By then, the voices outside seemed much closer, and one of them said, “Hey, there’s smoke coming out of the shed.” Early and I didn’t wait for the On your mark, get set, or go! We threw our backpacks over our shoulders, hoisted the Maine, and busted out of the shed. The river was just down the hill, but running with a boat on your shoulder while carrying the oars is harder than a three-legged race.

  Dogs were barking. Olson and Long John were yelling. But they were either too drunk or too lazy to catch us. Early and the Maine and I made it safely to the river and were already pulling away from shore when the dogs and pirates arrived, panting and cussing.

  I smiled. “Do you think those dogs are still smelling menthol?”

  Early didn’t respond. Not to me, anyway. “The empty space,” he mumbled to himself. “There has to be a mistake in the numbers. Pi needs more time in the empty space.”

  Then Early buried his head in his notebook, jotting down figures or numbers or notations as if he’d had a revelation.

  With my hands firmly on the oars and my legs and arms pumping in Fisher Auden’s boat, I had a revelation of my own.

  Early had said he felt as though Fisher didn’t understand him back at Mrs. Johannsen’s house. As though he were speaking a language that Fisher couldn’t understand.

  Fisher might have once been a school hero and a legend. But now he was a soldier. And I needed to find another person who could speak the language that a soldier would understand.

  34

  We arrived back at Morton Hill on Saturday to a strange mix of reprimands and cheers—the reprimands coming from teachers and the cheers coming mostly from boys who appeared equally awed and envious. Earlier in the week, the weather at sea had cleared enough to allow my dad to arrive on campus on the Wednesday of fall break, which left plenty of time for Early and me to be declared missing. Apparently, our absence had caused quite a stir, and there were lots of folks out looking for us. But when my dad laid eyes on me, he didn’t seem mad. He just hugged me for a long time. I think he didn’t want to let go because he was crying.

  The next day, Dad drove Early and me north, in
to the woods of Maine. Of course, there was no way to know if we would find Fisher, but we figured the best place to start was at the logging camp. And there he was, chopping wood in the chill, misty air as the sky clouded over and threatened rain. Early and I got out of the jeep but hung back. Fisher stood up straight at the sight of a naval captain approaching, and saluted. It was admirable but sad, too. He was so thin, and his saluting hand trembled.

  Dad saluted back. “At ease, son.”

  Fisher’s shoulders relaxed.

  The two of them sat on a couple of stumps and leaned toward one another in quiet conversation. I heard only bits and pieces, but, judging from the way they each listened and responded, I knew that these two men, these soldiers, were speaking a language they both understood. One of duty, honor, and loss.

  Eventually, I learned that Fisher had been wounded by debris from the bridge explosion, and after nearly drowning in the Allier River, he was found by a French farmer and taken to his home to recuperate. While there, he learned that the army had commissioned eight markers to be placed in the town square to commemorate the eight fallen soldiers. They thought he had died along with his men. By then the war was drawing to a close. He had suffered a great trauma and couldn’t bear the thought of suddenly reappearing and being hailed as a hero for having destroyed the bridge and enemy tank when his fellow soldiers had died in the mission. But mostly, he couldn’t bear the fact that he’d been absent from the shed when his friends were killed. I should have been there with them, he’d said.

  I remembered Early saying that no one knew where Mozart was buried. That maybe he’d wanted it that way—to be unencumbered by praise and accolades. Fisher wanted it that way too, but while he was still alive.

  So he wandered alone through France and England, then hopped aboard a cargo ship and made his way back to Maine. The army had declared him dead, and in that he found his only comfort. And the woods of Maine were his resting place.

  After some time, Fisher and Dad stood, and my father placed his hand firmly on Fisher’s shoulder.

  “You’ve had a tough go of it, Lieutenant,” my dad said—a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You had a mission, and you carried it out to the best of your ability.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a lot of good men were lost.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve known good men like that. And I can tell you, as bad as that loss is, the only thing that makes it worse is losing another one. Your mission is over, son. It’s time to come home.”

  There was a long pause. Fisher looked up, letting the wind breathe a cool sigh through his shaggy hair, and the authority in my dad’s words seemed to settle into him like a warm bath on a cold day. His tears mingled with the first drops of rain.

  “Yes, sir.”

  We headed toward the jeep, and I found myself marveling at my dad—at the ease he had in communicating with Fisher. But I think I also felt a tinge of envy and wondered if my father and I would ever have that same ease and understanding.

  My dad looked up, letting the raindrops touch his face. Maybe he had a few tears he was trying to hide. After a moment, he looked at me and said, “We’d better get a move on before the rain washes all the dry off.”

  I smiled at the phrase. It was my mother’s. Hers was a language my dad and I could both understand.

  Fisher looked better with his beard shaved and his hair cut, but he was still weak and shaky and very malnourished. We took him to the hospital in town, where he would get a lot of rest and eat three squares a day. Early and I visited every day after school, sneaking in maple fudge and assorted jelly beans to round out his three squares.

  A few days later, Dad drove us—Early and me—to Boston for the culmination of the Fall Math Institute. Fisher couldn’t go, but he told Early to give that numbskull mathematician the what-for.

  The sun streamed into the great oak-paneled lecture hall while we sat quietly, watching as Professor Douglas Stanton wrote out more than two hundred digits, which, he explained, were the most recently calculated numbers of pi. He talked long and loud and wrote lots of symbols and equations on the chalkboard, highlighting the fact that there were no ones in the most recently calculated digits of pi. He explained that, based on this disappearance of the number one, he’d concluded that other numbers would also disappear and that pi would eventually end. When he finished, there was a great deal of fuss and applause, and Professor Stanton raised his bushy eyebrows and said he would entertain questions or rebuttals if anyone was so inclined.

  Early was inclined. He stood up, all four feet seven inches of him, and walked to the chalkboard. Without saying a word, he began making markings of his own, crossing out some of Dr. Stanton’s figures. Then, with his little piece of chalk, he drew a vertical line after one number in the series and then drew a horizontal line through the remaining numbers, replacing them with a new series of numbers that actually began with and included the number one. The entire audience sat in stunned silence. I can’t even pretend to explain the notations he made, but there were a few gasps, and a steady murmur spread throughout the room. Judging from the reaction, I assumed Early had just delivered a devastating blow to Professor Stanton’s theory. But Early wasn’t done.

  He turned to face the auditorium and spoke without the use of the microphone. He didn’t need it, as his voice was already loud and the room was pin-drop quiet.

  “Proof by contradiction,” he began. “Professor Stanton says there are no more ones in the number. Unfortunately, his numbers are wrong. The one did disappear for a while, but Professor Stanton didn’t know that Pi was just lost. He was sad and had a big hole in his heart. He’d lost so much and didn’t have his mother or father or any friends. He just needed more time in the empty space. Until”—Early pointed to the sequence of numbers that had made the crowd gasp—“someone would find him.”

  Finding Pi

  FOR A LONG TIME, Pi lay hurt and alone, drifting between life and death. His thoughts meandered from memory to dream. His hands, his arms, and his whole body were so translucent that he was certain he could no longer be counted among the living.

  Until he heard a sound. It was a voice, hoarse and raspy. “Is someone there?”

  Pi sat up, or thought he did, although he could barely feel the rock beneath him. His head ached where he’d cracked it. He touched the trickle of blood that made its way down his scalp. If he could feel his head ache and his blood still trickled, then he must be alive, he reasoned.

  “Hello,” he croaked. “I am here.”

  A shadowy figure peered over the ledge above him. Another tortured soul whose burdens had led him to this place.

  “Take my hand,” the voice said.

  Pi got to his feet and thrust the pack up and out of the hole. It landed with a thud. He reached for a rock jutting out above his head, then found a foothold and hoisted himself up a few inches. He searched for another rock and another foothold. Finally, he was able to grab hold of the hand that reached for him. The hand was firm and strong and pulled him out of the hole.

  Pi had many questions to ask. What are you doing in this desolate place? Can you really see me? Am I still alive?

  But before he could speak, he gazed into the face of the one whose hand he still held. Pi stared, dumbfounded.

  “Father?”

  The man looked equally surprised and held his son in a long embrace. “Pi,” he answered in a whisper.

  Standing in his father’s arms, something shifted in Pi. He took in what seemed like his first real breath in a very long time. The air around him felt different on his skin. Pi wasn’t sure if he had earned the name Polaris or not—but it no longer mattered. He had longed to hear the name his mother called him. Pi.

  Words flowed out, and Pi learned that his father had been hunting when their village was attacked. He returned to find such devastation that he’d wanted to leave along with the other survivors. But he stayed for
many months, waiting for his only son to return. His son did not come back. Heartbroken, he felt that his burden was too great to bear, and he, like Pi, was drawn to the place of lost souls.

  Now that father and son had been reunited, they needed to find their way out of the winding catacombs. But how? It was dark, and they had been wandering in the maze of tunnels and caves for so long. Then Pi saw the drawings on the rock wall. The drawings were simple and moved from one cave to the next, telling the story of an ancient people on a journey. The people in the story followed the sun until it grew dark. Then, in another room, the drawing showed them following the stars, until finally, there was a bear. A great black bear, shown leading her cubs. The people followed her. And so did Pi and his father.

  As they walked, the air gradually got cooler and sweeter. The whispers and sighs faded away, and eventually the light of day replaced the darkness. Pi and his father passed through a misty waterfall and found themselves on dry ground.

  Both of them took a moment to breathe in the fresh air and warm their faces in the sunlight. Pi’s hands were no longer translucent. They were flesh and blood.

  35

  When Early finished, the auditorium was silent.

  The moderator stared at the chalkboard and then back at Early. “Well, you’ve given us a great deal to think about, young man. I’m sure there are many of us who would like to take a closer look at your figures and ask a few questions.”

  Professor Stanton’s face grew red. “This is absurd. He’s a boy!” He turned his attention to Early. “You can’t come in here with your silly story and prove that my theory is wrong.”

  “Yes, I can,” Early replied without emotion.

  I could see it coming like a freight train.

  “Cannot.”

  “Can too.”

  Professor Stanton didn’t know what I knew all too well. There is no arguing with Early Auden. But the good professor was a learned man, and he’d figure it out sooner or later.